No Pressure
by muggleborn.dragon.ryder
Summary: Maybe Stoick isn't as blind as he seems when it comes to his son. One-shot.


_**No Pressure**_

**Ok. So. As my loyal readers will know, I've been doing Nano Wrimo. But I'm up to 27k and I granted myself a little break. I confess - I rewatched Thaw Fest during this break. Hiccup/Snotlout rivalry is my guilty pleasure. :3 Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. It just occurred to me, that while Stoick didn't pressure his son, he seemed very awkward and hesitant in the arena with him and just very determined to reinforce that there really was nothing too big at stake here, except maybe a bit of pride and dignity. I just thought that maybe Stoick believes in loyalty to family, no matter what and he wasn't impressed when he witnessed Hiccup taunting Snotlout. **

* * *

At first, it pleased Stoick. His son seemed to be taking things seriously. He came up behind the boy and said, "What are you two working on?"

Hiccup barely even glanced up. "Just some new ideas for Thawfest."

"Well…you know, son…this year…with the dragons and all…you might actually…"

"Beat Snotlout?" Hiccup turned to his father with a hint of a smile on his face. "Best the Jorgensons?"

"Well…when you put it that way, it does have a nice ring," Stoick confessed, chuckling a little.

But, over the next few days, Stoick began realizing something unsettling, something he very much wanted to ignore. Hiccup barely spoke to anybody anymore; whenever he ate, he wolfed down his food and then raced off, back to the forge to fix something or to the sky to train a little more for the events.

But, on the off days in which Stoick did catch a rare moment with him, he saw a fire burning in his son's green eyes, a fire of perseverance. And not just perseverance, Stoick realized, but jealousy. Competitiveness.

He'd never considered his son as arrogant, "above himself" or even remotely competitive at all. But as he watched the way the boy looked at his cousin over the next few days, he sensed mounting tension between them.

On the day of the fly-and-shoot, the day of the tie, as Stoick left the arena, he thought he heard his son and Snotlout talking to each other.

"That's it," Hiccup was saying as he walked off the stage. "Keep talking, Snotlout. As your family's winning streak goes up in smoke, just like your rings of deadly fire." He said it in a way Stoick had never heard Hiccup speak before; gloatingly, victoriously, proudly. No, not proud – arrogant.

Stoick, hoping that the two were simply exchanging mock insults by way of congratulating each other, looked over at them. Snotlout's face was scarlet with rage; he mumbled angrily before walking away and taking it out on a nearby bucket, which he kicked high in the air.

It landed in the training arena again.

Hiccup seemed to be smirking, an expression never seen on Hiccup. The smirk seemed to widen. "What's the matter?" he called spitefully after his cousin. "Yak got your tongue?!" he looked delighted with himself, and proud too, like he expected people to laugh.

Stoick turned his head away and kept walking; competitiveness was a common trait among Vikings, he reminded himself. But this was going a little far.

He hadn't really wanted Hiccup to win the Games this badly. If Hiccup was acting this way because he felt pressured into doing it, then Stoick was, quite clearly, sending his son the wrong signals.

He wanted to rub his brother's face in Hiccup's victory as much as the next person; but there was still no question that his brother, although annoying, was family. He was a fellow Hooligan and a fiercely loyal partner in battle.

You were there for a family member, Stoick thought and when he closed his eyes, he saw his son, eyes alight with pride in himself, and maybe he looked a little taller too…had he grown that much, or was it simply the effect of winning, for once?

When Stoick saw him in the arena the next morning, just before the race, he was turned away and, when he turned back, there was no arrogance or pride in his eyes and for that, Stoick was glad. He so nearly told his son what had been told to him when he was a boy: "Make sure you win."

And then he closed his mouth. Did he want to see his son get that look in his eyes, that look of competitiveness, the look of obsession in his eyes?

Did he want that for his son?

He closed his mouth.

_No, _he decided, _I'd rather watch my son lose a million times than go around like he was last night._

"Remember, son," he said softly, looking down at the boy, "no pressure."

As he walked away to get a seat in the crowd, he thought he saw a smirk light up the boy's face.


End file.
